


Resilient

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Flirting, First Dates, I don't want to spoil things in the tags, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, The Hale House
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 11:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15436338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Nothing ever happens in Beacon Hills. And sure, that's probably a good thing, but it's the middle of summer break and Stiles is bored out of his mind. Then he meets Peter Hale.





	Resilient

It was a frustratingly known fact that nothing ever happened in Beacon Hills. Stiles wished that at the very least, he could get some insider information, what with his dad being the sheriff and all. But no. There was little interesting gossip to be had in civilian aspects of life, and the most interesting criminal activity that had happened recently was sixty-year-old Mrs. Jenkins from down the street getting caught shoplifting six boxes of condoms from the drug store. He didn’t even want to know what that was all about.

It was depressing, and Stiles was bored. Sure, he understood that living in a relatively sleepy town was a good thing; people weren’t afraid to take a stroll down the streets at night, felt comfortable leaving their doors unlocked, blah blah. He got that there were plenty of merits to living in a calm, safe town like Beacon Hills. He‘d still kill for some action, though. Of any kind. Literally.

Summer break was half over, and Stiles had already played through all of his video game collection. Which was admittedly not that impressive, because video games were expensive and it wasn't like he was made of money. He couldn't very well go around buying every new video game all willy nilly!

After finishing his games and then reading through his comic collection, he grew desperate. Enough that he started studying up on the rumored first day chemistry test that Mr. Harris liked to give out to incoming juniors. The first grade on that supposedly determined your starting grade for the whole class, and Stiles would like to start out with an A thank you very much.

Now, Stiles was left with only the company of his mind, staring up at the ceiling while he lay sprawled across his bed. There was nothing to do. No new movies that he was interested in had come out recently, Scott was busy training for the lacrosse team. Bless his optimism at making first line, but Stiles knew it wasn't going to happen; his asthma would see to that. Still, he wouldn't vocally discourage his friend (even if it meant Scott was usually too busy to hang out with him anymore).

Stiles groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, reaching over to pull his laptop off the desk—and almost falling off his bed at the stretch. When he succeeded in flailing back against the headboard instead of breaking his neck on the ground, he turned it on, Wikipedia already waiting for him with his last research obsession: the progression of stalking. The next open tab was on serial killers. He _might_ have been watching too many Criminal Minds episodes recently to pass the time, but he was just interested in what went on in people's minds to make them harass and attack others that way.

He opened another tab, this time pulling up YouTube so that he would have something to listen to while he read, breaking up the monotonous white noise of his room. Then, as an afterthought, he—carefully this time—reached over and pulled open his desk drawer, turning on the police scanner hidden inside. He turned back to his laptop, only half paying attention in case something interesting got called in. And to think, his dad always thought he was listening in on phone calls.

Two hours and twelve homicide articles later, Stiles' eyes were tired from staring at the screen. He probably had more information than you could ever want on why serial killers did what they did. He decided it was time for a break to clear his mind, so he closed the browser, pulled on his shoes, and made his way downstairs.

It was only one in the afternoon, meaning his dad wouldn't be home for another few hours. It was lonely with him working so many shifts, and sometimes Stiles couldn't help but feel like his father was avoiding spending time with him—only to immediately banish those thoughts, he knew his father loved him—but he knew that what his dad did was necessary. Being a cop wasn't the best paid position, especially in such a small town that didn't have all that much funding for its single sheriff's station. Hell, they still hadn't managed to find the money to fix the security cameras around the station, something Stiles eagerly used to his advantage when he wanted to break into the evidence lock up and rummage around for entertaining cases. Usually there weren't any; just speeding tickets and the occasional break in. Nothing exciting, even when he went far back in the case files.

The most interesting—albeit tragic—event in Beacon Hills’ recent-ish history was the Hale fire. It happened six years ago when Stiles was ten and not yet old enough for anyone to give him the details on what happened, or why. Now, after some sleuthing a few weeks ago, Stiles knew that eight people had died. Three of them had been children. The only survivors had been Derek and Laura Hale, both barely older than Stiles was now at the tender age of sixteen, along with their uncle Peter. The cause of the fire was chalked up to faulty wiring. In such an old house, it was a believable theory.

According to John's notes, though, the sheriff harbored some other ideas about what could have started the fire. Or, more accurately, _who_. It did seem a little suspicious that the Argent family had moved away just days after the fire had happened. Suspicious and entirely too convenient, that Chris Argent just happened to get a transfer to San Francisco right after it happened, taking his family—consisting of his wife, daughter, and sister—with him. But with everyone willing to believe the faulty wiring story—the alternative, a mass murderer on the loose, was too dire to bear—no investigation was launched. The Hale siblings fled town in the wake of their family’s deaths and never looked back. The case was closed, stuffed in a box to rot in the records room.

Nowadays, the Hale house was something of a ghost story. It couldn't not be, after something so terrible had happened. Teenagers would sneak into the Preserve at night and search for the ghosts of the deceased Hales, just as Stiles was about to now. The supposedly haunted ruins of the old Hale house seemed as good enough as anything else to occupy his overactive mind, never mind that he would be trespassing on private property.

With his house being on the edge of the Preserve, Stiles only had to walk twenty-five minutes before he got to the Hale house. Looking at it now, seeing the burned, dilapidated ruins, surrounded by the charred skeletal remains of trees that never recovered from the fire, he could remember smelling the smoke. Claudia had been the one to call her husband at the station, alerting him that something was wrong. It had been during one of her more lucid moments, before the sickness took her mind completely.

Stiles made his way up to the porch, looking at the steps dubiously, doubting their integrity, before beginning a careful climb, all the while expecting them to collapse under him. They protested and groaned as he went, all holding except for the top step that bowed so badly beneath him that he had to lunge for the safety of the deck. He collided with the front door, heart beating fast, then laughed at himself because of it.

"One broken step isn't going to kill you," he said to himself, pulling away from the door. His hands came away sticky with fresh paint, the outside of the house having apparently been recently vandalized. The paint was red, staining his hands like blood. Grumbling to himself, Stiles wiped the paint off on his pants and tried the door, pleased when the handle twisted open for him.

"Hellooo?" he called, just in case someone was hiding out in there. He had no plans for being murdered today for imposing on some squatters. But the house was empty of life.

It was eerie, the way the house seemed to breathe around him, air whistling quietly through cracks in the walls and windows. The air felt heavy inside, thick with remnants of smoke and dust, burnt-wood smell lingering like the aftertaste of a cigarette, even all these years later. The place was big, more of a mansion. Had to be, to house so many people. Even if Stiles hadn't read the report, he’d know that this place was once a home, filled with a large family. It was sad to stand here now, looking around the empty shell of their lives.

Stiles was surprised the house was still standing after being left alone so long in disrepair. He wasn't sure why it hadn't been reclaimed and condemned yet. Seemed like that would be the thing to do, after what happened; get rid of a safety hazard, make sure no troublemaking teens came here anymore, looking for a good time and ending up trapped under a fallen beam.

Stiles made his way through the bottom floor of the house, not yet ready to brave the staircase. If one of _those_ steps gave out, it probably _would_ kill him.

He started in what was likely once the living room, with a fireplace along one wall and across from it a big couch. There was a collection of armchairs too, burned down to their wooden skeletons. The same could be said of the couch, reduced to its charred wood frame and sheet of springs. The coffee table between them was smashed, shattered glass littering the floor and glinting like glitter among the dust, like thousands of stars behind a cloudy night sky.

Stiles moved to the fireplace, something shiny drawing his attention like a magpie. He stopped in his tracks when he realized what it was, heart sinking. On the mantle, there were rows of what he knew to be family pictures. The frames were broken, and the pictures were burned, or faded with age, only pieces here and there recognizable as actual photos. He picked up a heavy pewter frame that was lying face down, his expression somber. This one picture had survived, mostly. It was the entire Hale family. The photograph was singed around the edges, and it was covered in soot; the frame seemed to have protected it for the most part, the faces of each family member recognizable. Or, they would be, if Stiles had ever met any of them.

If asked, Stiles wouldn't know what motivated him to take the picture from the frame. Maybe it was because he didn't want the memory of the Hales to die with them. He folded it up and placed it carefully in his wallet, unsure of what he wanted to do with it when he got home. Maybe he could give it to his father to put in the Hale's casefile so it could be given to Laura or Derek if they ever came back to Beacon Hills.

Next, Stiles wandered over to the kitchen. It was surprisingly intact, due to being heavily comprised of tiles and granite countertops. Only the cabinets had seemed to suffer any damage, hanging from the walls at awkward angles where they weren’t burned away entirely. There wasn't as much to look at in this particular area of the house, on account of having been ransacked for anything useful long ago. Stiles only spent a few minutes poking around before moving on.

When he was passing the front door again, a noise drew his attention outside. There, staring up at the house, was a man. He was finely dressed and wearing a strange expression. Grief and longing, Stiles recognized, having seen both in his own reflection over the years, after his mother died. But there was something else, too. It had Stiles hesitating to go outside and face him, but his curiosity always won out over common sense. Stiles pulled oven the front door and waltzed out like he had every right to be there, surprising the stranger. At least, Stiles thought he did. He couldn't tell when the man only looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice silky smooth and sending a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

"Just looking around. I got bored and went for a walk, and stumbled on this place."

"This is private property, you know," the stranger said. He was smiling now, the expression making the back of Stiles' neck heat up.

"Not like there's anyone left for it to matter to," Stiles said. The stranger hummed at his harsh words, and Stiles got the feeling he was digging himself into a hole. "So, um, what are _you_ doing here?"

"Oh, same as you, I suppose. I decided to go for a walk, see how this old place was doing. I'm surprised they haven’t torn it down, after all these years."

"I know right? I mean, it's got to be some kind of safety hazard or something. And it's not like the private property signs _actually_ keep anyone out." Stiles rolled his eyes, gesturing between him and the stranger. "Case in point."

The stranger laughed and Stiles smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. He kind of felt silly with his mismatched clothes and gangly limbs, especially standing next to this man who oozed nothing but confidence, and probably hadn't worn anything less than a perfectly styled outfit a day in his life.

"So uh, I'm Stiles. Not my real name, of course. My real one is a Polish monstrosity that I can't believe my parents gave to me. _They_ could barely pronounce it, let alone a three-year-old. I still have trouble spelling it sometimes. So I just go by Stiles, because it's easier for all parties involved." Stiles snapped his mouth shut and thrust out his hand, hoping the man would ignore the blush he could feel rising in his cheeks. The stranger took it with an amused chuckle.

"Pleasure to meet you, Stiles. I'm Peter."

"Sorry that I, like, totally rambled on forever. I kind of talk a lot."

"I noticed."

"Sorry," Stiles said again, looking down at his feet. He scuffed his shoe in the dirt, willing the earth to open up and swallow him whole to spare him the embarrassment of this conversation.

"It's quite alright, I don't mind. It's been a long time since I've been around someone so... animated."

Stiles looked back up, squinting at him. Something was off about the way he had said that. "How come?" He asked.

"Oh, that's a story for another time. It's a bit morbid."

"I don't mind morbid," Stiles said, liking the implication that they would meet again. Perhaps liking it a little too much.

"I'm sure you don't," Peter said with a smile.

***

 

"Hey, Peter!" Stiles said, pleasantly surprised to run into him at the grocery store several days later. Peter smiled warmly back.

"Hello Stiles, how are you?"

"I'm good, just stocking up on greens. Gotta take care of my dad. What about you?"

"Similar. I'm stocking up my new apartment."

"Oh cool, where is it?"

"Downtown."

Stiles squinted at him. "What part of downtown?"

"Beacon Heights."

The teen whistled, impressed. Beacon Heights was the expensive part of town, all gated communities and country club members. Not that Beacon Hills actually had a country club. As far as he knew anyway. (Not that he would, being broke as hell.) "So you're a high roller, then," Stiles said, making Peter chuckle.

"Yes, you could say that."

"Dude, you've got to tell me your secret. Like, did you rob a bank? Sell your soul? Kill someone?"

"I made wise decisions about my finances starting when I was young. It builds over time. But it was mostly family money," Peter admitted.

"No get rich quick schemes, then?" Stiles asked, pouting a bit in mock disappointment. Peter smiled, shaking his head.

"I'm afraid not."

"Damn." Stiles sighed exaggeratedly, turning to inspect a head of lettuce. He expected Peter to leave, the conversation done, but the man stayed just where he was, perusing the wall of produce. Stiles cleared his throat, glancing at Peter from the corner of his eye. "So, are you new to Beacon Hills?"

"Not really. I used to live here a long time ago."

"That was like, super vague, dude." Stiles worried his bottom lip, returning his gaze to the lettuce, which he was inspecting way too thoroughly, and tried to ask in a casual manner; "Does that have to do with the morbid story you mentioned the other day?"

"It does, in fact."

"You never left Beacon Hills, did you?" Stiles asked slowly. He put the lettuce back, deciding that one was too wilted, and turned to Peter. The man was watching him with a calculated look, like he already knew where Stiles was taking this.

"No, I didn't."

"And your name is Peter. As in, Peter Hale?"

"Yes. Clever boy." Stiles was too busy feeling queasy to appreciate the compliment, which would have made him feel all warm and gooey under any other circumstances.

"I am _so sorry._ The other day, I shouldn't have—I was poking around your house, and I was so _insensitive,_ oh my God."

"It's alright, Stiles. I'd hardly imagine you were the first teenager to go looking around in there."

"That doesn't make it any better. And you were probably just trying to pay your respects, weren't you?" Peter shrugged. The gesture was much more elegant when he did it, unlike the gangly, jerky motions of Stiles' limbs.

"Stiles, it's fine. I don't think it matters, anymore, besides. I was just there to see if the place had been torn down yet."

"Do you want it to be?" Stiles asked, partly surprised.

"Yes. It serves no purpose other than to be a grim reminder of what happened to my family—one that I do not need."

"Yeah… Um, I think—I think I'm going to go. It was really good talking to you again, Peter, despite my," he gestured vaguely to himself, "everything, I guess. I'll see you around." Stiles picked up a head of lettuce at random before hurrying off, snagging a bag from the fruit section to quickly stuff it in as he went.

Peter watched him with an amused smile until Stiles disappeared around a corner.

***

The next time Stiles saw Peter was a day later at a coffee shop a short walk from the library, where Stiles had been spending his day nose-deep in used books, and this time he was prepared. He felt like he had all the information this time, so he could avoid from making such awful social faux pas. It wasn’t entirely his fault; with his socialization limited to pretty much just Scott, Stiles wasn’t the best at interacting with people, but still. He liked Peter. He wanted to keep seeing him and talking to him around town, like they were old friends instead of virtual strangers.

Which is why when Stiles walked by the coffee shop and saw Peter sitting inside with a drink and a book, he decided to go in as well. He ordered an iced coffee then walked over and sat across from him. Peter looked up at him slowly with one eyebrow raised, but smiled when he saw it was Stiles, marking the page and setting his book aside. It made something in Stiles flutter, because _woah,_ Peter just _closed a book for him._ That was probably the sweetest thing anyone had ever done.

(That was probably sad, he should raise the bar a little higher than that.)

“Hello, Stiles. What brings you here?”

“I was walking by when I saw you and thought I would say hey,” Stiles blurted, elegant as ever. He blushed, covering his face with one hand and stifling a groan. He had meant to say something cool or suave, the kind of thing Peter would, probably, _not_ sound like a lovesick puppy. Not that he was lovesick, of course, he’d only known him for less than a week. Luckily, Peter seemed to think it was cute and didn’t immediately run for the hills. “I also wanted to apologize again, for yesterday.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I know. But I’m doing it anyway. And I was actually hoping to run into you.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“I have something for you. I should have given it to you a few days ago, but I didn’t realize you were _you,_ so…” Stiles pulled out his wallet and took out the carefully folded picture, handing it to him. Peter didn’t let any emotion show as he took it, but handled it delicately, like he was afraid it would crumble to dust in his hands. That was doubtful, Stiles had had it carefully laminated to prevent that very thing. Honestly, it could probably survive a nuclear apocalypse now. “I, uh, found it at your house. And I know I shouldn’t have been snooping, but I mean, I’m kind of glad I was. None of the other pictures made it, but that one was still in pretty good shape, considering, and I didn’t want to just leave it there. I figured I’d get my dad to put it in your family’s casefile in case your niece or nephew ever came back.”

“Thank you, Stiles,” Peter said softly. The way his thumb stroked over the edge of the photo was almost reverent. Stiles smiled at him, subtly wringing his hands beneath the table.

“Anytime.”

Peter carefully tucked the photo into the breast pocket of his jacket, before fixing Stiles with a disarming smile, the heaviness of the moment evaporating, burned away by the look in his eyes. “I feel like I ought to do something for you in return.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I mean, that belonged to you already.”

“I was going to have the house torn down—I would have never found it if not for you. It’s now the last reminder I have of them, and I would like to repay you for giving it to me.”

Stiles looked down, hoping Peter wouldn’t see his blush. “I mean, if you really want to…”

“You look like someone who enjoys reading.”

“Yeah, totally. I mean, I guess I don’t read as much fiction as I used to, but I can research-binge with the best of ‘em,” he said proudly.

“You should let me show you my personal library sometime, then. I have quite the collection; I’m sure you’d find something of interest.”

“Dude you have a personal library? That’s awesome!” Stiles said, eyes lighting up at the promise of information. Then his face fell. He looked down at his hands. “But, uh, I think I’m going to have to decline. I mean, we just met, y’know? I don't even know you. You could be a serial killer or something,” he said, sounding almost like he was apologizing. He _wanted_ to trust Peter, but you don’t grow up the son of a cop without a healthy dose of distrust. His father didn’t raise a fool.

“Another time, then,” Peter replied easily, smiling like he wasn’t insulted at the insinuation. Stiles smiled back, glad he hadn’t offended him. “Until then, how about we meet for lunch some time instead and get to know each other?”

“That I’m totally down for. Do you have a specific place in mind, or…?”

“I was actually hoping you would. I’m not quite… up to date on where to go around here.” Right, because the coma thing. Stiles could remember a vague mention of that in the local news paper. He felt secure in the assumption that that was at least a part of Peter’s ‘morbid story’.

“Well, Mama Mia’s diner is pretty good,” Stiles suggested.

“She’s still around? That’s good to hear.”

“Yeah, they got some remodeling done a few years ago, but the place is still kickin’.”

“It’s settled then, Mama Mia’s it is. Does tomorrow work for you, around three?”

“Totally. I’ve gotta run, but I’ll see you tomorrow,” Stiles said, grinning brightly. He wished he could stay and talk longer, maybe pick Peter’s brain about what kind of books he was interested in, but he had promised to meet Scott.

***

Scott wrapped Stiles in a bear hug as soon as he opened the door, giving his best friend a dopey smile when he pulled away to let Stiles in. “Hey man, where ya been? I was starting to think you weren’t going to show!”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. I just got caught up with this _thing,”_ Stiles said, grinning back at him, in the tone that clearly implied _I’ll tell you upstairs._

“Ooh, secret squirrel stuff, awesome. Come on, I wanna know.” Scott turned and all but dragged Stiles’ towards the stairs after closing the front door, eager for gossip. With school being out for summer, he was starved for juicy tidbits about interesting happenings.

“Is that you, Stiles?” Melissa called from the kitchen. Stiles deviated from where he was following Scott to the stairs to duck in, seeing where she was standing over the stove, curly hair pulled up into a messy bun.

“Yes ma’am, it’s me.”

“Hey honey, is your dad still coming by tonight?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

“Yep. He gets off at six, so he’ll probably be here around seven, after he has a chance to go home and get dressed up first,” Stiles replied, trying not to laugh. Melissa glared at him, biting back a smile of her own, and shooed him off.

“Alright that’s enough from you, kid. Get out of here. You boys make sure to stay out of trouble!” She added when Stiles let himself be pulled away by Scott.

They ran up to Scott’s room and Stiles immediately commandeered his customary place on the left side of the bed, Scott plopping down heavily beside him.

“So come on, spill. Tell me, what was more important than out sacred Friday night tradition?”

“Well…” Stiles said, grinning when Scott groaned for him to continue. “Okay, so the other day I was messing around in the preserve, bored out of my mind because _someone_ was too busy working out—”

“Hey! You could have joined me, you know.”

“Psh, please. I don’t do workouts, man. Not like you do.” Scott had gone a bit crazy with it in preparation for lacrosse, and it was definitely paying off, but Stiles was perfectly content with his slightly above average strength and stamina. Besides, it wasn’t like he needed to be able to bench-press a person to play lacrosse. Especially since he didn't actually _play_ lacrosse. The bench was practically best friends with his butt by now, and he was just fine with that arrngement. “But anyway, while I was poking around in the Hale house, I met this guy.”

“That’s it? I thought you were going to say you did something cool, like found a body or something. What does this have to do with today?”

“I ran into him again today on the way over here. Hence the coffee.”

“Yeah I was wondering about that. Why didn’t you get me one?”

“ _Because,_ Scott, I didn’t want him thinking I’m buying coffee for someone else. Besides, all the sugar is counterproductive to the whole workout thing,” Stiles said, before slurping his drink obnoxiously. Scott rolled his eyes and shoved him. Stiles laughed, causing him to choke on his coffee.

“Agh God, _rude._ But anyway, we were talking for a while, and made plans to meet up tomorrow for lunch.”

“What, like a date?”

“No, _not_ a date - o _h my god._ I have no idea if it’s a date? I mean like, he didn’t say if it was one way or the other. Lunch isn’t really date-time is it? That’s kind of a breakfast and dinner thing, right? And lunch is more... platonically inclined. Lunch is the ‘make sure you’re not going to murder me on our actual date’ time, right? Scott? _Stop laughing this is serious!”_

“Dude, you need to _chill out._ If you don’t think it’s a date, then it probably isn’t. I mean, that’s how those things work, right?” Of course. Because it’s not like either of them would actually know, with their combined sixteen-year-old perpetually-single awkwardness.

“Yeah but. You know how I am, man. I’m terrible with social cues. If he was trying to be subtle that could have totally flown right over my head.”

“Well, what were you talking about before he asked you on a probably-not date?”

“Uh… he invited me back to his house. To look at his personal library. Did I mention he as a library _in his house?_ Because he does, and that is freaking _awesome_.” Scott snorted and shook his head fondly.

“How old even is this guy?”

“Uh… I don’t know? No quite old enough that I’d call him daddy, but close.” Stiles sighed dreamily just thinking about Peter, with his perfectly trimmed goatee and buttoned shirt that was open just a little too low. _On second thought… total daddy material._

“Dude.”

“Too much information?”

“Waaay too much.”

“Noted. Also he’s, like, really hot. _Really_ hot. Of the GQ cover variety. Actually, I wonder if he models? That could explain why he’s rich. I’m sure Levi’s would love to get him into some jeans. Oh god, how am I supposed to impress a model, man? What am I going to wear? I have nothing but flannel and graphic tees.” He was suddenly regretting his wardrobe choices. So far the three times Stiles has seen him in, Peter had looked perfect in every way, clothes probably tailored to fit him with how well they clung to him. There was no other explanation.

“Chill out, man, he’s probably not a model.”

“Not helping. Even if he’s not, you should see him. He could walk off the street and into a catalogue, I swear.”

“We haven’t even decided if this is a date! Seriously, man, you probably have nothing to worry about.”

“I still want to look nice,” Stiles said, pouting. Even if it wasn’t a date, there was always the possibility that he could impress Peter so much he asked him on a real date. Not that Stiles would accept of course, because he was underage and Peter was so not and he cared about these things… maybe. Who was he kidding, of course he would.

“Maybe you can ask my mom for advice?”

“Maaaybe I can do literally anything else?” Stiles held his hands up at Scott’s offended look. “Your mom is awesome and would probably give me equally awesome advice, I just don’t want her to tell my dad that I might possibly be going on a lunch date.”

“Do you have any other ideas? Not like there’s a list of people we can call.”

“Gimme your laptop. I shall do what I do best: research the hell out of this bitch.” Snickering, Scott handed over his laptop as requested and turned on his Xbox, settling in to game for a few hours, offering suggestions to Stiles here and there.

***

Three thoroughly confusing hours later, Stiles broke down. He now knew in what order the silverware was supposed to be used, as well as the purpose of each fork, and that was not at all useful information. They were going to a shabby little diner for crying out loud. In hindsight, Stiles couldn’t believe that was the place he’d suggested. Peter Hale seemed like a man with a more refined palate than 70s style diners. He was just glad Peter was at least familiar with the place, rather than disgusted at the mere idea of going to a greasy spoon like that.

He set Scott’s laptop aside and made his way downstairs where Melissa was reading in the living room, enjoying her day off. Her messy bun had been changed to a slightly dressier updo, several ringlets coming down to frame her face, and her faded tee had been exchanged for a blouse. Stiles resisted the juvenile urge to comment on her change in appearance in preparation of his dad coming over in an hour. He did want her help, after all; it would do better to behave himself and stay on her good side. For now.

“Hey Melissa? I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

“You just did,” she quipped, finishing her page before marking it and closing the book. She grinned and looked up at him, nodding to the couch. “What’s up, kiddo?”

“I need some advice. I may or may not be going on a date tomorrow, and I kind of don’t know what to wear since my closet is like, 99% plaid and 90’s references.”

“I see. Well, there’s a few things to consider. When is the date?” she asked, mom-face on.

“Three in the afternoon. We’re meeting for lunch. And actually, that’s kind of the problem, because I don’t know if it’s _actually_ a date. I mean, is lunch a typical date-time?”

“Oh honey,” she laughed softly. “Yes, lunch dates are a thing that people do. Usually to avoid the pressures of dinner dates, which is something you’ll learn all about when you’re older.”

“Huh. So like, it’s more low key?”

“Exactly. You shouldn’t worry too much about your clothes, since I’m sure it’s not a black-tie event.”

“Hey, it could be! I could have totally been asked to one of those.”

“But then you would know what to wear, and you wouldn’t be asking me,” Melissa said, winking at him. He smiled, shaking his head.

“Yeah, okay, you have a point there.”

“Why don’t you just try for a plain tee shirt and jeans. See how that goes. And remember to be yourself; that’s why they wanted to see you in the first place.”

“Okay. Thanks Melissa.”

“Anytime, Stiles.”

He got up to leave, but before he did, he glanced back at her, grinning cheekily. “Hey, are the ‘pressures of dinner dates’ why you’re all dressed up, now?”

“Get out of here, you little punk,” she said, rolling her eyes. Stiles went, but not before he saw her blush.

***

“Shit, shit, shit.” As luck would have it, Stiles was running late. He’d spent so long agonizing over what to wear, putting an outfit on only to change almost immediately, that he didn’t realize the time.

Now, blushing furiously as he hurried into the diner, he half-expected Peter to be nowhere in sight. But in fact, he was sitting at a booth towards the back, where there were fewer people. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief, smoothed down his shirt, and made his way over. He regretted going for one of his tighter tees that had been shrunk in the wash; he’d thought the tight shirt and his sole pair of skinny jeans would be a good look. But now, walking over to Peter without the protection of his usual layers, he felt vulnerable. And he knew he probably just looked like a gangly dork. The shirt was white, too; Peter could probably see his nipples through the material.

“Hey…” Stiles began, drawing Peter’s attention to him as he crossed the last few steps. He smiled sheepishly, sliding into the seat across from Peter. “I’m sorry, I’m usually not this—bad at being on time,” he finished lamely, rubbing the back of his neck and wishing he had at least a flannel to hide in.

“I was beginning to worry,” Peter said, thankfully not appearing angry at Stiles’ tardiness. He was relieved, planting his hands in his lap.

“I should really give you my number, so next time I could tell you if I was going to be late—not that I’m implying there will be a next time of course!”

“Do you want there to be a next time, Stiles?” Peter asked, quietly amused if the slight quirk to his lips was anything to go by. Stiles laughed nervously.

“I think we should get through _this_ time first. Then if you don’t go running for the hills… maybe. Yeah.” Stiles smiled softly at Peter, eyes light and hopeful. He would _really_ like to see Peter again, if he could.

***

“So, about giving you my number…” Stiles said, after unsuccessfully trying to get Peter to let him pay for his own meal. He had chivalrously insisted on paying for both of them, reaffirming Stiles’ idea that this was in fact a date. (But Peter, frustratingly, still hadn’t said anything about it, so he didn’t _know._ )

“I’m guessing this was a success, then?” Peter teased, smiling as he took out his phone and unlocked it, handing it over.

“I mean, I think so? I’d like to do this again. It was fun.” Stiles entered his number and handed the phone back, feeling giddy because he had _successfully given an attractive person his phone number._ Score one for Stiles!

“Yes, it was. Perhaps next time, we could do something else. How do you feel about museums?”

“I mean. If they’re the ‘more silent than a library in a graveyard’ type, I’ll pass. But if they’re interactive, then hell yeah, I’m all over that.”

Peter chuckled. “You don’t seem the type to do well with prolonged silence.”

“Yeah no, I love to talk. I think having to be quiet would _literally_ kill me.” Stiles paused, realizing something, and cringed. “That’s not a problem, is it? I know I talk a lot, and tend to steamroll right over people without meaning to—feel free to stop me at any time because I can totally at least make a solid effort to talk less if it bothers you.”

“Not at all. I like how much you talk, Stiles. I have been in silence for too many years.” Peter grinned at him, leaning just a bit closer like he was imparting a secret, drawing Stiles in easily. “It helps that you always have something interesting to say.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Stiles said, positively glowing at the compliment, looking up at Peter with a shy little smile. He could count on no hands the amount of times people said they liked him talking.

“My pleasure. I’ll see you soon,” Peter said, leaving Stiles with a parting kiss to his knuckles that had him melting onto the concrete in front of the diner. Stiles sighed dreamily, watching him go.

 

He didn’t realize just how good of a mood his date with Peter had put him in—and it was definitely a date, that old-fashioned kiss proved it—until he got home and his dad pointed out that he was actually _humming._

“What did you do?” John asked suspiciously when Stiles startled, having not expected his dad to be home this early.

“Dad! What are you doing here?”

“I live here. What were _you_ doing out _there_?”

“Ummm, nothing?” Stiles said, grinning.

“Uh-huh. Just tell me; is it illegal and am I going to read about it in a case file or a report tomorrow?”

“No, dad, come on. You know me.”

“I _do_ know you, and that’s why I’m concerned.” John walked closer to him, and Stiles side-stepped his father, trying to escape towards the stairs. Only for John to catch him by his scruff, refusing to let him go until he figured out what was up.

“Dad, come on,” Stiles whined, trying to squirm away.

Eyes narrowing at a familiar scent, John leaned in and sniffed him, drawing a protest from Stiles, before pulling away, eyes widening in realization. Then he gave him a knowing smirk and let him go.

“Ahh.”

“‘Ah’ what? Dad? _What?_ What do you think you know?”

“What’s her name?” John countered.

“Whose name?”

“The girl you were with.” Okay, so Stiles might have borrowed his dad’s cologne. The expensive one that was like fifteen years old and reserved for dates. He was trying to impress someone for once, sue him. What he hadn’t counted on was his dad being able to recognize the smell, having expected to shower it off long before he got home.

And shit, he thought Stiles was on a date with a girl. Perfectly reasonable, since only Scott knew about the whole thing with that _not being_ Stiles’ thing. Well, Melissa probably knew it, or was at least suspicious. _Shit, think Stiles, think, now is not the time for your mind to wander._

“Petunia,” Stiles said, dragging it out, and wanted to slap himself. Because _really,_ the way he said that didn’t sound _at all_ suspicious. Not to mention a large part of his dad’s job was literally making people confess to the truth. And Stiles had seen his dad interrogate people, know that he was _good at it._ He was doomed.

“And I haven’t heard about her because…?” _Maybe there is a God_ , Stiles thought, grateful for the lack of interrogation even though his behavior certainly warranted it.

“We were, uh, kind of keeping it on the downlow. Figuring things out and all that before we made things, y’know… official. I only just told Scott yesterday,” he added, hoping that gave credibility to his story. At least if his dad brought ‘Petunia’ up the next time they all had dinner together, Scott would know enough not to out Stiles, and would probably play along. He should still text him about it, just in case. And right, texting, that was a thing. Was it too soon to text Peter? It hadn’t even been an hour yet, but Stiles already missed talking to him. He didn’t want to come on too desperate, though.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go now, and text Petunia, because we had a really great time and I think I should tell her that I had a great time. Again. Because I also told her earlier.”

“Have fun, kiddo,” John said with a fond shake of his head. He pulled him into a quick hug that Stiles was quick to reciprocate, probably thinking something sappy like _he’s growing up so fast,_ and other, equally embarrassing things.

“Right. Well. See you later,” Stiles said, pulling away with an awkward little wave, before running up the stairs. He had his phone out before he even managed to fall through his door and onto the bed, and it was only when he was looking through his contacts in confusion that he realized: he had given Peter his number, but Peter had never given Stiles his. He tried not to be disappointed by that.

Hopefully Peter would text him soon, assuming Peter hadn’t neglected to offer up his own number on purpose.

***

Stiles’ phone rang early in the evening almost a week later. Stiles stared at it for a second, not recognizing the number, and then answering hurriedly with hope that it might be Peter. He tried not to be too hopeful, though; he’d already had four wrong numbers and two telemarketers call since his date with Peter. He didn’t want to be disappointed again. But it was Peter’s smooth voice speaking when Stiles answered the phone, and that left him smiling stupidly.

“Hello, Stiles, how are you?”

“Good. I’m great,” _now that I’m talking to you,_ Stiles thought, immensely grateful that his brain-to-mouth filter was functional enough that he didn’t say that out loud. “How are you?”

“I’m well. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go for a walk? It’s a lovely evening.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles agreed immediately, eager to spend more time with Peter after spending a week thinking he’d been ignored, or that Peter was having regrets about befriending him.

“Excellent. Shall I come pick you up?”

It probably wasn’t the best idea for Stiles to let Peter see where he lived. Then again, his dad was the sheriff; few people in town _didn’t_ know, since he was so recognizable as the sheriff's son. And with his dad tirelessly working the Hale case, there was no reason for Peter to not know who he was and where he lived anyway.

“Yeah, sure. Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No. I want it to be a surprise,” Peter said, voice all but a silken purr. It made a shiver run down Stiles’ spine, Peter’s voice full of promise. He worried his bottom lip, wondering what other ‘surprises’ Peter might have for him tonight.

“Alright. I’ll see you soon; let me just text you my address.” Stiles hung up and texted him, then saved Peter’s number so that next time he wouldn’t have to wait a whole week. Then he decided his outfit—a ratty tee shirt and equally worn-through jeans that had a hole on the left butt cheek—weren’t acceptable for another possible date. Especially not an evening date. He quickly jumped out of bed to change, hearing Peter pull up just as he was tying the laces of his shoes.

 _Huh,_ Stiles thought. It took much longer than five minutes to get from Beacon Heights to his house; it was all the way on the other side of town. _He must have been in the area,_ followed by a giddy, _how sweet,_ _he must have been thinking of me._

Stiles ran downstairs to meet Peter, just as he was walking up to the front door. Such a gentleman. Most people would have just honked and waited. And who said chivalry was dead.

“Hey,” Stiles said with all the enthusiasm of his youth, smiling as he stepped through the door and locked it behind him.

“Did you tell your father you were going out?” Peter asked, tone part amused and part chiding.

“Nah. But it’s cool, he’s working the nightshift. Won’t be back until morning. So as long as I’m home before him, I don’t have to worry about it,” Stiles said, hoping he didn’t come across as too suggestive while a part of him hoped he absolutely did. Peter smiled, not giving Stiles any clue as to how he took his words, and offered his arm. Stiles barely kept himself from _ooh-_ ing at the gesture, letting himself be led to Peter’s car.

It was beautiful, and no doubt expensive, and Stiles was afraid to open the door for fear of tarnishing the paint with his skin oils. Peter had no such fear however, and politely opened the door for Stiles, before walking back around the car to slide gracefully into the driver’s seat. Stiles was envious of the way he moved, coolly confident.

***

The ‘surprise’ ended up being a pathway into the preserve, only a few minutes drive from Stiles’ house. Not at all what Stiles was expecting, but he would walk through aisles at Walmart if it meant spending more time with Peter.

They got out, Stiles slightly uneasy about Peter leaving his beautiful car unattended on the outskirts of the woods, and began a slow trek deeper into the trees. It was only just past six, the sun still bright, lighting their way. It would be several more hours before it set, but it was beginning to turn the sky a beautiful mix of colors.

Stiles took Peter’s arm again when he offered it, feeling like a character in a storybook as they walked with Stiles’ hand on the crook of his elbow, Peter’s free hand holding it there. The skin of his palm was warm, and soft, but strong. Stiles wondered what it would feel like elsewhere, and then the tips of his ears burned as his teenage hormones tried to take that thought to bad places. _I want him to touch me in bad places,_ Stiles thought, biting his lip on a soft sigh. _Oh my god, no, have some class for_ once _in your life._

“Have you always lived in Beacon Hills?” Stiles asked—mostly to distract himself and his filthy hormonal mind before popping an inappropriate boner, as teens were wont to do—as they strolled leisurely through the trees, listening to the birds singing and the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. He noticed the way Peter hesitated, and almost apologized for bringing up what might be painful memories, before Peter answered him.

“Yes. I grew up in these very woods. I think I might know them as well as I know my own name,” Peter said, glancing at Stiles with a smile. “My family has lived here for generations. We were actually a very prominent family, once. One of the founding families of this town, you could say.”

“That is so awesome,” Stiles said, eyes shining as he looked at Peter. “What did your family do, when Beacon Hills first began?”

“They were miners. They came over during the height of the Gold Rush, I believe, looking for fame and fortune. The fortune, they found. The fame… came later, you could say.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, squeezing Peter’s arm. He wanted to hug him, but Peter looked content to keep walking, leading him deeper into the Preserve.

“It’s alright. I’ve had six years for the pain to dull.”

“But it never really goes away, does it?” Stiles still felt the pain of his mother’s loss. He knew his dad did, too, or else he may have moved past the awkward dance he and Melissa were doing around each other, not-quite dating despite both parties being clearly interested. He wondered if there would ever be a day when it didn’t hurt to think of his mom. When he could remember the good memories, without them being tainted by the shadow of her sickness.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t,” Peter said, squeezing Stiles’ hand. If anyone knew what it was like, it would be Peter. Stiles leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder as they slowly walked.

“That sucks.”

“Indeed.” But despite the somber tone, Peter was smiling when he pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “But it doesn’t always hurt to think about your loved ones. Eventually, you will be able to remember the time you spent with them, and it won’t feel like you’re breaking down inside.”

“How long does that take?”

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted.

Stiles felt his eyes inexplicably welling with tears, had to blink them away rapidly before they fell and dampened Peter’s neatly pressed suit jacket. This poor man had lost everyone and everything he’d ever loved, in some way or another, most of his family dead and the rest in New York. And he was still hurting, broken inside from the loss of everything he’d ever known in one sudden blaze. A freak accident. Or perhaps not.

“My dad doesn’t think the fire was an accident,” Stiles said softly, pulling away from Peter to how they had been walking before, arm in arm, so that it wouldn’t hurt when Peter inevitably pulled away from him.

“What?”

“I found your family’s case file. It was labeled as a freak accident, the fire caused by faulty wiring, but my dad didn’t think that was true. From his notes, he suspects someone connected to the Argent family.” They were another old family in Beacon Hills, probably as old as the Hales. “There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence, but it all looks really convenient, especially with the way they all left town just after it happened. When my dad talked to Chris Argent, he said they moved because of his work; I guess selling firearms requires a lot of moving? I feel bad for his daughter; she’s my age, and constantly transferring schools has to suck.”

“Stiles, where are you going with this?” Peter asked, his grip on Stiles’ hand almost painful.

“My dad, he met with a witness who said he talked with a woman about how to make the perfect undetectable accelerant. A-a chemistry teacher. Mr. Harris; he didn’t want to get involved, so he never said anything—Peter, you’re hurting me.” Peter let go of Stiles’ hand, finally stopping. He took Stiles’ hand between both of his own, rubbing it gently and pressing a soft kiss to Stiles’ sore knuckles.

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Peter murmured against his skin. “I didn’t mean to. What you’ve told me is just… a lot to take in. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I get it. I know that finding out it might not have been an accident, after everything you’ve been through, is… not easy to hear. But it’s okay, it doesn’t even hurt now.” Stiles wiggled his fingers in Peter’s grip to prove it, even though it _did_ actually hurt, and smiled when he still looked concerned. “I’m okay. Promise.” Peter nodded, finally letting go after one last lingering kiss, this one on his palm. The way his artful stubble scraped against Stiles’ hand left his skin tingling.

“It’s getting late. I think we should head back.” Stiles looked up at the sky, seeing how much darker than it was when they had first arrived. It was much closer to the horizon, the sky more pink and purple than a sherbert of orange and yellow. Looking around them, he realized they were deeper in the Preserve than Stiles had ever gone before, the trees off the path around them dense. Like he’d walked straight into a scene from Snow White, the branches sinister and skeletal, reaching out to snag him, hoping to snare him as prey for the birds.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Stiles said, leaning into Peter’s side again. Peter wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him close, and together they turned back to make their way back to the trail. Which, at some point during their walk, had disappeared from under them. “You know where you’re going, right?” Stiles asked, apprehension clear in his voice.

“Of course. I told you, darling, I know these woods _very_ well.”

*** 

The drive back home was quiet, both of them mulling over their thoughts. Peter was likely digesting the information Stiles had given him, working through the fact that everything he had believed was wrong. Meanwhile Stiles was wondering if he should have told Peter at all. But then, Peter had a right to know what had really happened—if, of course, arson at the hands of the Argents really _was_ the case—no matter how profoundly the truth sucked.

Stiles just hoped his dad was right, and that he hadn’t just falsely turned everything Peter thought he knew on its end.

By the time Peter parked outside his house, it was well and truly night out, the stars coming out and the moon shining brightly, half-full and hanging low in the sky. It was tinged red, what people would have called a blood moon centuries ago. It was supposed to be an omen. Stiles wondered what it could possibly be an omen of, here in this sleepy little town where nothing ever happened.

Ever the gentleman, even despite the inner turmoil he must be facing, Peter walked Stiles to the door. He looked at Stiles for a long time, something dark hiding in his eyes. Stiles thought Peter might be about to kiss him again, but he didn’t, to his disappointment. That was surely acceptable on the second date, wasn’t it?

“We should do this again,” Stiles said after almost a full, agonizing minute of heated silence. “It was nice. And I like talking with you. I… I like that we talk about important things, not just idle small talk.” Stiles didn’t have many people in his life who would have actual _discussions_ with him, not like Peter did. In the short time they’ve known each other, Peter has taken his babbling in stride and treated Stiles like what he had to say _mattered_ , rather than simply talking over him, ignoring what he tried to say. It was refreshing.

“I like talking to you as well, Stiles. Maybe we can do this again tomorrow night, if you’re not busy. I would appreciate it if you could tell me more about my family’s case. It… I think you know how much it would mean to me, to find out what really happened.”

“Of course. I can talk to my dad, maybe. See if he has any new leads. He doesn’t like giving information away so freely, but he lets me look at cases with him sometimes, when he can’t figure them out. He’ll probably let me if I ask.” And if he didn't, then, well. Stiles would just sneak into the station and have a look at them again, like he did the first time.

Peter smiled again, leaning in, and _here it comes, this is it—_ and reached around Stiles to open the door, his keys having been sitting in the lock for the past several minutes. “Goodnight, Stiles,” Peter said. Stiles tried not to be disappointed, telling himself that Peter just found out his family was probably murdered, kissing him was probably the last thing on Peter’s mind. Then Peter brushed a soft kiss against Stiles’ cheek that had him blushing furiously, pale complexion turning to rose.

“Goodnight, Peter,” Stiles managed, pushing the door open wider and finally going inside. It was on the tip of his tongue to invite Peter inside, but he was already turning away, leaving. So Stiles let the door fall closed instead, locking it and then leaning back against the hardwood. He exhaled deeply when he heard Peter leave, closing his eyes. That was one hell of a night.

**Author's Note:**

> anyone who follows me on tumblr (@the-cookie-of-doom) has maybe seen me rambling about this fic. It's 36k so far, and I was going to wait until it was finished before starting to post. But today I decided fuck it, we're starting this now lol. updates may be slow, but I'm aiming to get out at least one update per month, maybe too. 
> 
> I've got a lot planned for this fic, so I hope you guys enjoy the ride! 
> 
> Also it's my first time posting something this dark in a while, so if you guys like it, please comment/kudos! It's really encouraging, especially with the kind of fic that this is going to turn into lol (are you intrigued yet? I hope so!)
> 
> Also also! This early in the fic, I wasn't really sure what to tag (always my weakness), so if you have any tag suggestions, please let me know in the comments.


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